


Come Morning

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, Community: sherlockkink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you say to a man who doesn't know he's dying?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Fill this kink meme prompt: _Holmes is drugged in such a way that he can't feel pain. He's injured and dying, and he doesn't know anything's wrong, so Watson doesn't tell him. They sit together, Watson quiet and contemplative while Holmes yammers on, until Holmes is finally silent forever._  
> I don't have a clue what drugs could do anything like this, no medical research here, just lots and lots of made up stuff and angst.

It isn't terribly hard to find Holmes when he disappears this time, and really, that should have told Watson everything he needed to know, except he isn't Sherlock Holmes.

By the time he makes up the stairs, having dispatched most of the heavies lurking about, Holmes has taken care of his own captors. "Watson!" and Holmes greets him with a smile. "I was quite certain you would be along shortly. Help me up, would you? My legs have gone funny."

Holmes asking for help in anything is unusual; admitting that he's been injured in some way even more so. "What happened?" he asks.

"They gave me something," Holmes admits, and even more grudgingly, "Something I didn't recognize." He waves a hand to the table pushed under the window. Watson sifts through the mess and comes up with an empty bottle. "Well? What is it?"

And Watson can't answer him, because he recognizes the drug all too well. A painful reminder from service, the sort of secret that isn't breathed outside of medical tents. A small does for pain; a large dose for those unfortunates they could do nothing for, to carry them off to painless, endless sleep. This drug doesn't belong here, not here, not in Holmes.

"Watson! What is it?"

He can't tell him, he _can't_. He gives Holmes the name of something else, something to cause temporary paralysis in high doses. His voice doesn't shake, and his hands are quick to tuck the bottle away, and Holmes doesn't question him for once. He squelches the urge to give the bodies on the floor a through, final beating, and helps haul Holmes up instead.

"Come on, old boy, let's get you home," and he knows Baker Street will be no relief, that there is nothing he can do, _nothing_; all he has left is time, time to sit and watch Holmes die.

He sends Mary a telegram, sends away Lestrade and the yarders, takes tea from Mrs. Hudson and lets her know she won't be needed tonight. When he returns to the sitting room, Holmes is curled on the couch, watching the fire. Watson freezes in the doorway, caught by the sight of him, and _hours, I've only got hours left_, what could he possibly say?

He shoves Holmes aside, settles himself along the arm of the couch, and pulls Holmes back against him. He can't let Holmes see his face, can't let him pick apart the fear barely contained within him. "Tell me about the case," he says, and Holmes sets off on one of his rambling monologues. For once, Watson does nothing, says nothing to pull him back on topic. He closes his eyes and lets the words turn into nothing more than sound; the only important thing is to concentrate on the sound of Holmes' voice, on the sigh of his breath, on the beat of his heart against his palm, laid flat on Holmes' chest. _What do you say to a man who doesn't know he's dying?_

The daylight fades, the fire flickers, Holmes rambles on, and Watson listens to his heartbeat align with Holmes', catches himself breathing in time with him. The hours tick by, Holmes never silent long enough for Watson to have to worry, and if he let himself hope he'd be breaking his heart every second, never mind that it is shattering again and again with every beat.

Holmes falls silent, but Watson can still hear his breath, can still feel his heart beat; of course he can. He stares out into the empty air above Holmes' head. "Holmes," he says, and there's no response. "Holmes," he whispers again, and maybe his voice is caught with his breath, stilled in his lungs, and he doesn't curl his fingers round one angular wrist to count the heart beats.

He doesn't need confirmation; he will simply sit with Holmes, with whatever is left of Holmes, until morning comes. And if morning never comes … well. That's all right with him.


End file.
